The Consequences of Sneezing
by UnoriginalScreename
Summary: One-shot. A single sneeze can change everything.


The only thing UnoriginalScreename owns is the appalling cold she has become afflicted with, which in turn inspired this one-shot. Consider this disclaimed.

**The Consequences of Sneezing**

_Sniffle._

"Have a great day," I say, forcing a smile. The girl tosses her hair over her shoulder and takes her change with a disdainful frown. As she pulls away from the gate, I sneeze.

Working at the campus parking deck is bad enough on a good day. On a day when I am grappling with the worst cold I've had since kindergarten, it is unbearable. Not only do I have to deal with rude people all day, but I have to do it with a runny nose.

"Hello," I greet the next person. I know I sound like a chain smoker—my throat is sore and raw from so much coughing.

"Um…" he glances down at my name tag. "Bella, is it? I'm a student. I get to park for free, right?"

I sigh. Another one of _those_ people. "Do you have a pass for this deck?"

"Well, no, but I have my student ID. Isn't that enough?"

"If you don't have a pass for this deck, then you've still got to pay."

"But I'm a student," he argues.

"If you don't have a pass for this deck, student or no, you've still got to pay," I repeat myself. "Two dollars, please."

"I don't have any money. Why don't you just let me out?"

I survey his car coolly as a cough rips through me. BMW. No money, my foot.

"I can't let you out without paying, sir. If you don't have the money I'll have to ask you to back up and park again."

"This is unbelievable!" he looks angry now. I turn around to sneeze again while a diatribe of curses starts erupting out of his mouth.

"Sir," I say calmly, "a line is starting to form behind you. Two dollars, please."

He rolls his eyes. "Frickin' highway robbery," he mutters under his breath as he finally reaches for his wallet. He's still grumbling was he tosses two dollar bills in my direction. I catch them and politely inquire whether he'd like a receipt or not.

"No," he sneers before racing out of the deck, tires squealing.

The next few customers are just as frustrated, even more angry at how long they've had to wait. I can't help but get a little ticked off by their attitudes. How fair is it that they get to cuss me out at the top of their lungs while I'm forced to smile and take it calmly? Don't they understand that I'm just doing my job? I don't set the price per hour for parking. I don't force these people to park here. I don't even control the gate for crying out loud—the register does that. I'm just a cashier.

I sneeze again, and this time a glob of snot that vaguely resembles an alien lands in my hand. Gross. I'm in the process of wiping it off of my hand when _he _drives up. I mumble a weak "excuse me" and dive for the hand sanitizer I keep under the desk. He's holding his permit out lazily with one eyebrow raised.

"I just sneezed," I say lamely, and nearly smack myself. This is the first time I've ever said something besides "have a great day" to him. I've never had a reason (or the nerve) to.

"Gasuntheit," he says, and I'm stunned because he's never spoken to me before.

I think I thanked him. I might not have. I take his permit in my now-clean hands and sneak a peek at the name as I scan it.

_Cullen, Edward._

I've known his name for months now. He comes through every Saturday like clockwork. Leaves at eleven. Returns at four. I think he takes the bus throughout the week because I've never seen him except at those times. Or he rides his bike. I know I do. It saves money on gas. He probably goes out of town on those Saturdays. He probably has a girlfriend that he's visiting. I pretend that he doesn't, and that I don't care, but it's obvious I do.

I hand him back his permit and just as he grabs it I sneeze unexpectedly. And not only do I spray my germy nose-guts all over his arm like the loser I am, but the force of the sneeze knocks me off balance. My body lurches forward and my head hits the side of the window.

It hurts like hell, and it takes everything I have not to cuss like a sailor in front of _Cullen, Edward_, who has this look of horror fixed on his face. At first I assume it's because I sneezed on him. Then I feel something running down my face and realize I'm bleeding and thank God I can't smell but I start to feel dizzy.

My head spins, and he says something but I can't hear it because I faint.

When I wake up, I'm not wearing my jeans. I'm in a hospital gown and I'm cold. I spare a brief glance at my bed before contemplating the walls. They're painted sea-foam green; it's probably meant to be comforting, but instead I feel slightly queasy. I'm at the municipal hospital.

"Oh good, you're awake," a voice breathes, and I realize that _Cullen, Edward_ is in the room with me. He's probably the one who drove me here in the first place, right after I sneezed on him and fainted.

"I'm so sorry!" I don't know why I'm yelling at him. "I didn't mean to sneeze on you! I've been sick all week!"

"And you haven't been taking care of yourself," remarked another voice. I turn around and see a man in a white coat—a doctor—entering my room. "I'm Dr. Bretton. And you, Miss Swan, are dehydrated and have a mild concussion to go along with that cold you've been nursing."

"Oh," I say. It seems very inadequate. My eyes are studiously avoiding the IV in my arm which I only just noticed.

"We're keeping you here overnight for observation, and I'm prescribing some antibiotics for that cold. A nurse will be in to change your bandages shortly." And as quick as he came, Dr. Bretton vanished.

I finger the layer of gauze that is now covering my head as _he _speaks again. Edward.

"How are you feeling?"

I shrug. "Like an absolute idiot."

"What?"

"I am the worst sort of idiot."

"I don't think you're an—"

"I am," I interrupt him. And suddenly my mouth is open and I can't stop the words that I'm spewing no matter how much I tell myself I'm a bigger idiot for it. "Only an idiot would sneeze just as the object of her fantasies drives up, and then proceed to sneeze again, not only spewing germs at said object but banging her head and concussing herself to the point where the fantasy object must take her to the emergency room. Actually, scratch that. I'm not an idiot. I'm a pathetic loser."

He blinks. "Fantasy object?"

"Yes."

"I've been called worse things."

"Oh?"

"Often. I'm flattered, actually. How, um…how long, exactly, have I been a fantasy object?"

I hesitate before deciding that he probably thinks I'm crazy anyway. "Two years. Since I started working at the deck."

"Huh."

There is an awkward pause before he speaks again. "Graham's a great doctor. I would have taken you to my dad, but Saturday is his day off."

"Graham?"

"Dr. Bretton. He's a good friend of the family."

"Your dad's a doctor?"

"Best in the city."

"Huh."

"I don't think you're an idiot, by the way. Or a loser."

I perk up a little. "No?"

"You kind of remind me of Sandra Bullock in that movie _While You Were Sleeping._"

"Except I'm the one in the hospital, not you."

"A minor technicality."

"You like chick flicks?"

"I like Sandra Bullock."

"She rocks pretty hard."

"Indeed."

I pretend to be calm, but inside my heart is flip-flopping around my ribcage. I'm having a conversation with _Cullen, Edward_ about Sandra Bullock and I'm not dreaming. "So in this movie analogy, am I supposed to fall for your brother or do you end up with my sister?"

"My brother's married."

"I'm an only child."

"So I guess that means we have to fall in love with each other."

A hysterical giggle escapes me. "That's so anticlimactic."

"Alas, it's all we've got."

The nurse enters, as promised, to change my bandages.

"I should probably go," Edward says. "Visiting hours are almost over."

I mumble something noncommittally. I don't want him to go. I want him to keep talking and remember my name and tell me I'm not a loser. I want him to suggest we fall in love again.

"Do you like coffee?" he suddenly asks.

"Yes."

"Would you like some? Tomorrow? After they discharge you we could go to this great café I know and just talk. Maybe work on that falling in love thing."

"Sure," I say quietly. I doubt he hears me.

"What?"

"Yes!"

And when he leaves I've got the biggest grin on my face. I'm smitten at the mere suggestion of coffee, and it doesn't matter that tomorrow I may discover that the idealized notion of him I've held in my head for so long is false. It doesn't matter that he could be a jerk, or flawed, or boring. Because I get to find out for myself. I won't be left wondering.

I sneeze.

* * *

Read and Review, please. Flames are welcome!

If you know which book Dr. Graham Bretton comes from I'll send you a sneak peak of another one-shot I'm working on.

I pulled a muscle when I sneezed today. It was decidedly unpleasant.

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